We Wayward Stars
by Pie Badger
Summary: Altea burns, and in the way of burning things, not all of its ashes scatter in the same place. Centuries and galaxies later, the Garrison unearths a massive, unknown machine- and its still-living pilot. Or; a proposed alternate Altean Lance AU.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello everyone! This is a fic I've been posting thus far exclusively on my tumblr account ( .com) that I updated here. As a result, the first four chapters are going up in pretty rapid succession- they're all finished- but I can't say that's an update pace I'm going to be maintaining, ha ha.**

 **That said, enjoy some Altean Lance AU.**

* * *

 _Evacuate. Get to the castle_.

It's fine advice, for a situation where the world isn't burning.

The horizon splits with purple fire, bright enough that it burns afterimages into his eyes. Like thunder. Retaliating crackles of turquoise strafe back towards the ships- like clouds on a stormy day, or an unexpected meteor shower, far too many, clustering the sky, and everything is burning.

Another shot- it gouges into a nearby fountain, sends a spray of rocks- one of them clips his jaw and he sees bursts of strange color unrelated to laser fire.

He can't stand here, or he's going to die. The realization drags his feet into motion- but he barely makes it a few steps.

Bodies. Strewn across the path like pieces of rubble. Soldiers- one of them stirs when he approaches.

"Hey, c'mon, stay with me here," he wants to sound reassuring. Wise. The things that proper royalty should be, as much as that's meant for the second child of the king. It comes out as more of a plea than an order. "C'mon… focus, focus on me, you're awake, you're okay."

She sit up, stands cautiously, with help. "…Prince Lance?"

"No time for formality, somewhere we're not getting shot at." He looks towards the other soldier. As quickly as he can, he looks away. Tries to swallow the rising lump in his throat. "Can you walk?"

"…Yes. I think so."

"Great. That's great. Just- easy does it." He focuses on leaning into her side- on being a good crutch. It helps him take his mind off the other body- they have to step over it-him, even like… that…

 _Don't think about it_.

They find the city's inner wall, as much of it is left- its barrier generators have failed, but the masonry itself is holding up to the artillery fire. An ion cannon slams into it, sending deep cracks down the surface, and he swallows again, amending that to _mostly_.

More importantly, there's more people here, more soldiers- the familiar white and gold. Someone- a field medic from the blue stripes on her pauldrons- takes the wounded soldier, supporting her to an area where it seems like more than half the assembled soldiers are already.

"Prince, you shouldn't be here. His majesty and the princess are already at the castle." The captain catches his arm. "The main road's been completely destroyed- your best bet is through the garden paths. We'll hold them off as long as we can."

He meets their eyes.

There's too much desperation there for it to be reassuring.

He runs.

The gardens were quiet, once, pleasant places. Now, new bodies are lying across the roads- statues, trellises, remnants of stonework. Fortunately, no more people; the fighting isn't here, not yet.

Sweat, and other things- things he's trying not to think about, wet marks left by the wounded soldier- are gluing his clothes to the skin, his hair to his forehead. He's bleeding where the fountain cut him, he realizes, when he goes to wipe his face and his glove comes away smeared with indigo.

He rounds a bend- and there it is. Home. Spires standing tall, the barrier still holding- the ships haven't reached it yet, the outer wall is still holding. Far, still, but close enough- the coast is mostly unguarded but he can sprint for it-

Something heavier than a blaster crashes into the ground hard enough to nearly throw him off his feet.

Sprawled on one side, marred with fire, the proud blue of her plating is a single clear lagoon in the firestorm that the area has become. The Lion's eyes are dark, resting deep in a gouge in the earth. In the sky behind her, a cruiser's ion cannon has started to turn, ponderously, in her direction.

She's not recovering.

He doesn't know the Blue Paladin personally. He's seen them at a distance, standing together- proud lines and gleaming uniforms. He doesn't even have a name to call- but he calls anyway, stumbling and sliding into the crater- something, anything-

The Lion's eyes flicker weakly as he reaches her jaw. Something flutters at the edge of his mind- pain, loss. A murky image of a body slumped over itself.

 _Gone_.

Words die in his throat. But the cruiser's cannon is pressing on his mind- a dark silhouette now beginning to glow, slowly but surely, with vivid, sickly-colored light.

The Lion has to move. Can they die? Is it possible for something to kill a Lion? He doesn't want to find out- they _can't_ find out, she has to move- as futile as it can possibly be he puts his back to her jaw and _pushes_ , as if he can somehow heft anything as large as the Blue Lion. As if he could get both of them out of the way of the cannon.

A flash, brighter than any he's seen, searing pain- and a sudden, warm darkness. A darkness that shudders, hard, and then calms.

The entire left side of his body feels like it's on fire.

Lance blinks hard, several times, trying to accommodate the sudden shift in lighting. Shapes stand out in the darkness- he begins to identify the lines. The ground is moving.

He's only been in a Lion once- when he was young enough to fit in his father's lap, but he recognizes enough. This is the mouth- and where the back of the throat would be, there's a way upward, he remembers-

 _Go_.

A new presence in his head. It doesn't feel like the Lion. It feels like…

"…Dad?"

 _Leave Altea and run. Run as far away as you have to- other planets, other galaxies. As far away from here as you can!_

The Blue Lion creaks. She's lifting her head- she's the one Dad is talking to. She's the one he's sending away. Lance feels her crouching, ready to jump.

"Don't-!" He stumbles, limps forwards- sure enough, there's the pilot's chair, and beyond it… he can see the castle again.

The barrier flickers. A golden comet streaks to its left, far into the atmosphere- then a green one. A red light- and then the ground lurches out from under his feet. He barely catches himself on the chair- his head is spinning. His ribs hurt- breathing hurts.

Something warm wraps around him, an idea that feels almost like a hug.

 _Trust?_

He's crying now, and it makes everything run together even more. Crying hurts; standing up hurts, but he can do something about one of those things. He eases himself, gingerly, into the chair.

They're already out of atmosphere. Altea hangs in view, a shimmering, blue-green marble. From space it looks peaceful- as if it isn't under attack. Like they could just turn around now, go home- things would be okay, and Allura would get him in a headlock for worrying her like that, and…

Something new twinges hard. He's hurt- badly, he can tell that much.

Altea is a single, bright star, in a field of others. Everything is quiet now. Just his own, labored breathing in the cockpit. It's chilly here, or at least it seems that way.

 _Trust?_ It sounds more urgent this time. Worried.

He can't tell anymore which star is Altea. Saving some grace for his astronomy teacher, he probably hit his head.

Timidly, he curls his fingers around the armrests, and leans back, closing his eyes.

 _Take me home_ , he wants to say- but if his father is sending the Lions away, he can guess what it means. It's hard to even stay awake now, there's something lulling about the cold. It even takes the edge off the pain.

"…Trust."

The last thing he hears is Blue humming.

* * *

There's a light in his eyes and he can't feel his arms and legs. Something is looming down on him- some kind of strange, faceless creature with a short, rounded snout. He tries to squint, make out more details, but it simply pulls back, engaging in some kind of rapid chatter.

" _-_ awake-"

The room is very white- boxy and cluttered. There are more of the faceless creatures- three of them. He's lying on… something. Some kind of table. He tries sitting up to get a better look- and gets only a few inches before his muscles give out on him abruptly.

A hand on the back of his head catches him before it hits the surface. "Easy now. You're okay. You're safe."

There's something about the tone that makes him believe it. He relaxes- they set his head back down, gently, and back up. Really funny looking things, but they seem nice enough. They must've found him after-

"Blue!" This time, he does manage to sit up- at least, part of the way, enough to realize he's strapped onto the table. "The- the Blue Lion. What happened to-"

Two of the creatures confer together, quietly- the one that caught his head last time stays behind him. Lance looks between them, helplessly.

"…Allura? King Alfor? Did you- did they-" His side twists painfully, biting off whatever else he might say.

One of the conferring creatures raises its hands. "You may have a broken rib. Don't try to talk too much."

"I need to see Blue. It's… really important." There's some dark shapes that might be eyes in the creature's face- he focuses his gaze there. "…Please."

Silence. The air smells heavily of antiseptic.

A hand rests on his shoulder. "Your ship?"

"Not really… _mine_. She- helped me…" he doesn't want to say _escape_. "…helped me get here. Wherever… that is."

"Earth."

He racks his brains for any 'Earth' that he's heard of. So much for these guys being Taujeerians. "Do you guys trade with Altea?"

The creatures glance between each other, saying nothing. That was, admittedly, more concerning than them talking- Lance's ears twitch fruitlessly in the silence.

"So… that's a no? How about Olkar?" He's hyperventilating a little, and his injured side does _not_ like that, but it isn't enough to stop him. "…Merl? Llievos?"

They come to the conclusion that he does, in fact, have a broken rib.

Earth has no healing pods. Nor does it have any craft that can leave its own solar system. They are ambitious about exploring one of its furthest moons within the next few years. He's the only, as they put it, "extraterrestrial life" they have ever seen.

Nor do they let him get at Blue's console enough to see if she has anything that can hail across that kind of distance. She's in some kind of cavern, and even after they allow him to sit up, or at least, prop himself up, they draw the line at cross-country hiking apparently.

Lance attempts sulking. It lasts roughly five doboshes, in which time he realizes how many things require chest muscles to accomplish, and how many things he has to worry about.

(Crying, incidentally, uses chest muscles)

They relocate him to an actual building, out of the tent, and it's here he discovers the Earthians- they call themselves humans- do in fact, have faces. The first one who shuffles into the room says some apologetic things about quarantine and seats himself. It takes Lance a moment to place his voice- he was one of the ones in the tent. One of the conversing ones.

They look surprisingly Altean. Like dark-eyed Alteans with squashy, tuber-shaped ears, but he could see this man as an advisor, or a dignitary- he actually reminds Lance more than a bit of a tutor he used to have. His name is Samuel Holt, and talking to him is fairly easy.

Fairly, because most of what he wants to know is about Altea, and talking about Altea makes something uncomfortable, wet, and hot settle in Lance's throat.

It's very hard to drag him off the topic, but Lance manages- mostly by the grace that this man has never played a game of Fyllrue in his life.

They have to improvise with something Samuel calls a checkerboard, and actually pushing plastic tokens around it, and it's not really Fyllrue without the lasers, and there's a certain vacancy to the way he nods when Lance explains the rules.

At least, until on their third game Samuel takes three of his castles in one turn. "I think I'm getting the hang of this," he says, grinning.

Lance musters a rather un-princely squawk. "You did that on purpose!"

For a short, happy while, he focuses entirely on the game. They're five and five and Lance feeling in a spectacular place for a tiebreaker when Samuel suddenly checks something on his wrist, apologizes, and leaves, about that quickly.

He scarcely has time to piece together _don't think about it_ before it all comes back on him.

He doesn't know if he's ever going home.

He doesn't know if home is even still there.

Maybe they do let him get back to Blue and he calls and Zarkon finds him.

Maybe Dad and Allura are already dead and they're coming for him next.

Maybe they already know he's here. It isn't like he could fight them. And then he'd have doomed another planet- hiding Altean royalty and a Voltron Lion? That would be unforgivable.

The last thing he wants to do is sleep, but his body seems to override him. He dozes, restlessly; at times he swears Galra soldiers are trying to kick down the door and come after him. Others, Allura is at his bedside, scolding him for being reckless, getting into something _again_ , just who is he trying to impress with all this? He's hardly a child anymore, he needs to carry himself with more decorum, or at least stop getting hurt in the process.

Sometimes, he dreams of his father, ruffling his hair, telling him he's being very brave for all of this.

Sometimes he thinks he can hear Blue singing again, and wonders if he ever actually left, or if he's still in her cockpit, floating through space. He has nightmares about that, then- frozen, breathless, unable to call out, alone. Forever.

Every time, he wakes up to the same, small room.


	2. Chapter 2

Quintants pass. It's hard to keep track of time because he doesn't have a window, and humans keep time in unfamiliar units.

Mostly, he sleeps. A lot of people want to talk to him, ask questions. After a while he can talk about Altea without losing his voice. Some of them leave disappointed- he's able to recount, well enough, how a teludav works, or barrier crystals, but he couldn't tell someone how to build one, or where to look for parts. He isn't an engineer.

Samuel Holt is easily the most persistent. The makeshift Fyllrue board gets a lot of use- other times, he brings paper and a pencil and asks about Altea's culture. Takes notes. It leads to talking about writing- their spoken languages match up almost perfectly, which is one thing, but the writing is completely different. Picking up the letters isn't that hard- their alphabet is only twenty-six characters- but the phonetic attachments stump him for a while. It's some time before he can figure out how to spell his name in _their_ letters.

And they tell him about themselves, as well.

Sam has two kids- he brings a picture of them, grinning, holding a creature he calls a "dog" between them. The dog looks less pleased with the arrangement. Lance tells him about Allura- recounts the time he went missing for a week trying to find flowers for her birthday that time he was eight.

Sam is an all right guy, it turns out- he doesn't mind, when Lance can't finish that story.

(Every time, he keeps thinking he's done crying about it. Every time, he's surprised)

He sleeps less. Restlessness starts to set in, and he paces the length of the small apartment more than a few times. Gets in the habit of returning to his bed when he hears someone coming- the first time he's caught, a nurse tuts at him disapprovingly.

They still won't let him see Blue. At this point, he's more or less identified the one-eyed man who seems to be in charge- Iverson- and he's skeptical when Lance points out that he's feeling better.

Fortunately, it would appear they've been seriously underestimating him.

And he's been paying attention.

His quarters include a bathroom, and, after the last time he'd asked, a variety of hairties and clips. Braiding his hair again feels good, for reasons entirely outside of getting it out of his face. It's a reminder that he's finally getting down to business.

Eyeing his reflection, he contemplates. The silver hair is going to have to go. It's showy, obvious- and looks great, but that's entirely beyond the point right now. It's one of the more coveted points of Altean beauty, and, as best as he's been able to tell, has no earthly equivalent. His luminous patches, he can cover, they're simple enough, and the bigger ones are already accounted for with the simple shirt and pants he's wearing. Other than that, it's mostly just the ears.

Shifting is always an interesting feeling, of things settling in on themselves, cartilage and sinew reconfiguring. Relatively little of that, this time.

He surveys his results- brown hair, shorter ears- he can't completely get rid of the way the tips come to points, but he can get away with it. One pair of bandaids later, and he makes a decent looking human, if he says so himself.

The door is locked- against _outside_ intrusion. Tsk tsk, humans, they _have_ been underestimating him. Or overestimating his injury.

One flight of stairs later, he relents that he may have _underestimated_ his injury just a little. But personal freedom is a surprisingly effective painkiller, and he's back on his feet rapidly.

The first thing that hits him stepping outside is the _heat_. A yellow sun presiding over a world mostly red and orange, sand and scrubland stretching as far as the eye can see out to canyons. Sam told him that most of this planet was water- but it's a little hard to believe that, looking outward.

The structure itself is bigger than he'd assumed. It looks like there's several other wings, branching off an imposingly-sized central building.

Is that where they're keeping the Blue Lion? It'd certainly be big enough. And either way, he wants to find out what's in there.

Up hallways, down yet more stairs (his ribs don't like that) he can tell he's heading in the right direction because the place is definitely _livelier_ than the halls he's gotten behind. At first, it's just guards, or people in the gray uniforms that he's used to. But then he starts to see others- people in orange, people more his age, if he's reading humans correctly at this point. The former, he hides from- but the latter, he musters the particular princely decorum that's gotten him out of scrapes before- the walk of 'yes sir I have every right to be here, nothing suspicious whatsoever, really you'd just look silly asking me for my qualifications'.

It goes spectacularly, right up until he walks directly into someone. "Someone" who does an excellent impression of a roughly meaty wall in a uniform. Gray uniform.

Lance's heart skips a beat.

"New?" The man asks, amiably. His dark hair is trimmed very close to his head, except for a single tuft overlooking his forehead. Even dark-eyed and strange-eared as humans are, he's rather handsome. Which really just makes the situation worse.

"Huh? Oh- yeah, absolutely. Brand new. How'd you tell?"

"…Well, you're walking around in your PJs."

A small nervous twitch installs itself under Lance's eye. "…Casual fifth quintant?"

(he doesn't even know if it's fifth quintant. He guesses. Assumes. _Hopes_.)

The uniformed man's other eyebrow raises to join the first.

After a moment, he pats Lance on the shoulder lightly. "A lot of people forget their uniform first day. Don't worry about it too much."

It's a while after he's gone that Lance allows himself to breathe. And considerably longer before he attempts a much more forced-casual saunter down a side hallway.

All right, Lance. Think about this. He's not going to find Blue just running into people. There's something. Something…

 _The quintessence of the Lion resonates with its paladin_.

He's no paladin, obviously, but he connected with Blue once, right? That has to count for something. Maybe he can find her again.

Meditation breathing had been drilled in him since he was practically old enough to sit up in the proper position. He could do it in his sleep at this point- eyes sliding closed, counting by fives, moving away from the crowded hallways let him focus just on the footsteps; just him and the person following him. And there was something… ahead. Below.

Wait.

He comes to a stop. Hands in his pockets. Trying to downplay his jangling nerves. "You know, normally when people are trying to shadow somebody, they're actually stealthy about it?"

"…Huh?"

"Don't _huh_ me, you've been following me for the last three doboshes!"

The stranger blinked. He was a full head taller than Lance, powerfully built, but his wide hands are gathered almost timidly in front of his chest. He's another one of the orange uniform guys. "What? No, I was trying to… Okay, yeah, I was following you. I'm lost, okay? This campus is huge, and you looked like you knew where you were going."

Well, that was… an improvement over whipping out a luxite blade and trying to take his head off in Zarkon's name. Not that that was… real likely. Right. This guy's human, as far as he knows Lance is another ordinary human. They're having a nice normal human conversation.

…A conversation where Lance isn't a scientific oddity.

"…All right." He scuffs his bare toes on the floor. "Sorry. I'm Lance."

"It's… It's Hunk, all right?"

Lance smothers a chuckle, feeling bad for the look the other boy sends him.

"Yeah, blame middle school. Shouldn't we get going? I don't wanna be late."

And he's got a narrow window to operate on before they realize he's missing, but that's not something you can drop in casual conversation without raising a lot of awkward questions. He slides back into the breathing pattern.

It's tricky to hear with shortened ears- but something's there. Faintly, he can hear Blue humming.

"So… why are you here?"

"I told you, I got lost. Or- oh, you mean that as more _generally_ kind of 'here'."

"Yeah, you don't exactly look like most of the guys I've run into."

Hunk levels a vaguely affronted look at him. "Look, if you start playing with rocket fuel _outside_ of a space exploration program, you get a lot of awkward calls from the government. This stuff is the literal cutting edge. You don't get much newer than other planets."

That actually brings Lance to a stop, eyeing Hunk with newfound interest. "Other planets, huh?"

Whatever he sees in that look seems to worry him. "…That's… what I said, yeah."

"You're gonna like this, then." He hears something- down the hallway.

"Oh, man, you can't just say something like that. Is this hazing? Is that where this is going? Because-"

"Shh!"

Two guards pass by, walking abreast. Fortunately, they don't turn down the hallway- the narrow alcove Lance shooed Hunk into has nothing to cover it from the front. No sooner have the footsteps faded that he's on the move again- going down the hallway the direction the guards came from.

"We're really not supposed to be here, are we?" Credit to Hunk, he keeps his voice down, though he voices his concerns as soon as Lance stops to catch his breath. "Are- are you okay?"

"Doing great-!" He straightens up, a little forcefully, and regrets that too.

"You look like you're gonna pass out."

"Probably because he has a broken rib and shouldn't be out of bed at this point."

Iverson folds his arms.

* * *

"I don't think you realize the gravity of your current situation."

"I think I get the _gravity_ just fine. I'm not just going to sit around here like a pet Juillrat."

"And the cadet that saw you?"

"Correction, saw a perfectly normal human." He's still wearing the bandaids- but everything else is back to normal.

Iverson sighs, deeply. "Right. That. When were you going to tell us you can do that?"

He leans on his hand, a trace of smugness slipping through the irritation. "You didn't ask."

"Don't play games with me, boy."

There's a smart remark on his lips, but something about Iverson's tone quashes it. He works his jaw, wordlessly.

"You recovered a lot faster than we'd estimated. _Regardless_ of how you've set yourself back a week with this little escapade. That's… on us. But if you want our help- and you need it at this point- you need to listen."

"…Sir," it feels like a good place to start. "I know how to respect foreign dignitaries. And _respectfully_ \- if I'm staying here, we're in danger. If Altea can't stop Zarkon's army, Earth doesn't have a chance." _Altea might've won_. They might've fought back. He wants to say that- but with the Blue Lion here? Without Voltron? When his father decided to abandon the planet and send the castle and Lions away?

He doesn't _want_ to think about it- has been trying not to this entire time- but not thinking about it won't fix anything. "I can't just stay here and rest my feet up without knowing if they're coming for me, or the Blue Lion." _Not knowing if anyone survived_.

Something softens in Iverson's face. He rubs his temples, breathes into his hands for a moment.

Silence between them. A clock in the hallway is ticking softly to itself. One of the guards standing outside of the door is fidgeting.

"Can I trust that you'll stay put for the rest of today? If-" he raises a hand as soon as Lance draws breath to protest- "what you say is true, there are people that need to hear this. And… we might be able to work something out. But that will take time. And I expect you to be able to _follow instructions_."

More waiting. He hates the sound of that.

At the same time… He has a leg in the door here. More than just sitting in a room. And Iverson is right. He doesn't have a lot of other options- and failing all else, those other options hinge on him being healthier than he is now. Which will take time _anyway_.

"Do we have a deal?"

Two-toned eyes meet a single dark one.

"We have a deal."


	3. Chapter 3

The first thing they do is test him on his shifting. Identify hard limits- and the parts of him that he can't get rid of. They take pictures of him- normally, and in human morph, from several angles. It's pretty clear they're trying not to let him sneak out the same way he did last time, especially because, despite Iverson's words, his rib continues to heal up rapidly.

Lance can't say he's entirely displeased to be the center of attention. Part of it feels good- like showing off. Pushing himself to eight feet tall in one go and watching their reactions is worth the cramped feeling he nurses the rest of the day.

But a certain part of it gets tiring. A reminder that basic things are novel and shocking to these people- that he's the only Altean on this entire planet.

He works on reading and writing in English. It's slow going, but cathartic to watch Sam try to struggle his way through writing in Altean. Reading has never been his favorite pastime- especially not now, when there's an exorbitant amount of sitting in his life and all he wants to do is move.

Eventually he's pronounced healthy enough that someone takes him up on requests for sparring. They don't have gladiator bots here- everything has to be done personally, or with weighted bags. He quickly finds he likes the bags a lot better, both because he can hold back less, and because there's less of him getting swept off his feet.

Okay, so, he may have underestimated humans a little. They don't toss him around nearly as much as he's used to, but they're _fast_. Everything seems to brighten up when he can actually move- he sleeps better, with less nightmares, when he's actually tired going to bed.

(They're still there)

Another exciting change is clothing.

The clothes he'd arrived in aren't salvageable. He figured as much, but it's different to look at the stained blue and white fabric- a gouge large enough he can put his hand through it in the front, and a smaller exit in the back. The people he talk to are excited about fabric technology, figuring out how it was woven. It's as if they're talking through water- the chattering, almost incoherent, and somewhere underneath Lance has settled into a cold place, looking at that opening.

He has a scar. He's already seen it enough times to know, but it had still been an ugly surprise the first time the bandages came off. It hadn't occurred to him there might be more of it on his back than on the front, but he later confirms, in private. Pokes back at his own memories- fuzzy, incoherent. He'd been going into shock. He'd been dying.

If Blue hadn't saved him. If the Garrison hadn't been there.

He manages to put in some kind of permission in the right place, and they take the old clothes away. Sometime after he isn't in that room any more he remembers how to breathe again.

They bring him alternatives- Earth clothing. A few of the shirts have slogans of some kind on them- or symbols he doesn't have the context to get. Now and then someone snickers about one or the other- there's one in particular that just reads "I believe" in bulky block print and what looks for all the world like a strange, green distortion of a Gurin's face with some kind of pancake-shaped hovercraft that he adopts into regular wardrobe just for the fact that people seem to find it either hilarious or exasperating in equal measures. He knows most of the nurses and personnel by name at this point.

Along with clothes come cosmetics. Earth ones- the first few varieties he reacts strangely to. Altean skin is nothing if not responsive, after all. Most of it, ultimately, doesn't pan out- but all they really need is a working concealer, and sure enough, they find one.

Humans don't have patches of bioluminescent skin under their eyes- and apparently the Garrison is unimpressed by his ingenuity with adhesive bandage strips. Lance's pride is ruffled- but, at the same time, he's intrigued- they've gone from making sure he can't get away with passing as human to trying to help him. And he hasn't forgotten about that _something_ Iverson was going to work out.

The man himself proves elusive. Apparently, he's very, very busy- enough that when his proposition actually comes through, it's delivered by a tall, wavy-haired woman he hasn't seen before.

The Garrison, understandably enough, does not want to let go of the Blue Lion. Or him, for that matter (as if he'd just saunter off into the wilds of Earth and leave a _Voltron Lion_ in unknown alien custody, but he keeps that down to just rolling his eyes), but their entire legal system at least _tries_ to be built on a sense of inalienable rights, and without Lance actually being guilty of any crime, they don't particularly want to keep him like a zoo animal.

That, and he's already going pretty stir-crazy, sparring sessions and newfound friends notwithstanding. The fact that this is discussed within view of the relatively new foot-sized hole in that corner of the ceiling isn't lost on him. Unfortunately, not within range of the intern that had bet him five bucks he couldn't do it.

The Galaxy Garrison is not _exclusively_ a military base. It is also- in fact, _chiefly_ \- a school. The orange uniforms he ran into on his particular escape attempt were students. He's the right age, and he's already had a few people mistake him for a student- this is delivered with a rather pointed look- that they could potentially enroll him in the program as a pilot student. He has what the woman calls relevant experience in the area.

Lance also calls it relevant experience, and not fooling around with recreational hovercraft in the countryside. In part because that conjures idyllic memories on a planet that's likely entirely conquered and torn apart by conflict at this point- and he's gotten very good at not touching that knot of feelings.

He'll have to study and pass tests- earn his keep, as it will. In exchange, provided he checks in with the instructors on a semi-regular basis and doesn't run off into the countryside for months on end- something they apparently _do_ think is a genuine concern- he will have more or less free range of the Garrison campus, and the campus town. He'll have to take responsibility for keeping himself hidden, in that regard.

The alternative being sitting around on his butt, he takes it.

* * *

"Nope."

Lance pauses, his hand still extended. He's not exactly thrilled about the prospect of roommates either, but, if it comes down to just _one_ , and one the Garrison seemed to imply he'd get along with, it would work- it takes him a moment to place this person in his memory.

By that time, Hunk has seemingly cued up the rest of his indignation. "No. Nuh-uh. Not happening. I don't know what your deal is, but the last time I talked to you, I'm pretty sure I got questioned by the FBI. It was the most terrifying thing that ever happened to me, I never wanna do that again, _no thanks_ , goodbye."

"You're not gonna get thrown in jail for talking to me." He shrugs, giving up on the handshake and moving instead to sling the suitcase containing the sum total of his worldly possessions onto the bed. It's mostly given clothing, not _all_ of which involving what he now understands is a caricature of supposed aliens.

"Yeah? How do you _know_ that?"

"Because this time I'm not breaking out." Or breaking into, what he now understands was probably some kind of off-limits area.

A brief, furious, contemplative pause. "I'm holding you to that."

"Great."

"Seriously, if I do get arrested you're defending me in court."

"That would be pretty hard, seeing as I'm not a U.S. citizen."

"Then _don't get me arrested_!"

* * *

The classes are roughly thirty people to an instructor, sometimes more, sometimes less. It's entirely unlike the private tutors he's used to- but he's perfectly prepared for that. In fact, more prepared than he's ever been for an academic endeavor in his life, considering he has actually, in fact, read most of the material slash skimmed for relevant details.

Earth's grasp of astrophysics is _rudimentary_ compared to the science he's used to- they don't even have an understanding of wormhole physics, which means his worst subject is entirely off the curriculum. He's also a licensed pilot by Altean standards, going into an introductory class- and his written English is decent enough. It can't keep up with lecturers, but taking notes in Altean solves that easily enough.

He is prepared for all of these things.

He is not prepared for Keith.

In hindsight he would really love to say that he spotted the guy immediately as trouble, but it was actually much more likely, riding the high of the prospect of genuine academic success and newfound freedom, his eyes entirely swept over Keith multiple times.

It wasn't hard. He was short, he kept to himself, his voice squeaked a little bit when he raised it to ask a question.

He also just happened to be one of the top students in every class they shared.

Resentment was probably unfair. In fact, resentment was _almost definitely_ unfair. Lance was here on a technicality and an agreement, he wasn't exactly living his life buried in his studies, even when his attention span _could_ last that long slogging through dense textbooks at a frustrating crawl. But he _tried_.

And Keith just had to make it look so easy.

He had to know he was good, too- the guy barely talked to anyone else in class. As soon as the period ended he was en route to somewhere else. Way to say 'you mere mortals aren't worth my time'.

But it seemed almost nobody was. It was hard to catch anyone besides the instructors really talking to Keith with anything in greater substance than "I forgot my calculator, can I borrow yours?"

And he just kept effortlessly sailing through.

Yeah, Lance was resenting him for it.

It wasn't a rivalry, though.

Not until they got assigned to a project together.

Keith was already in the library by the time Lance met him, shooting him nothing more heated than a sidelong glance and a "you're late."

"By what, ten minutes?"

"Half an hour."

He sat down, eyeing the books already strewn on the table between them. "What the heck is that one?"

Almost as soon as he reached for it, Keith closed it, pushing it to one side. "Fighter manual. Not part of the assignment."

"Then why the heck were _you_ reading it?"

"Different assignment. You were late, remember?"

"Pssh, yeah, right. What, they put you in fighter pilot classes a year ahead?"

Keith directed him a slightly vacant look. "…Yeah. Why?"

Lance almost dropped his book. "You're _kidding_."

"I'm not?"

"No, no. You want me to believe, this entire time, you're taking basic pilot classes _and_ fighter classes, _and_ doing better than me this entire time-"

Keith's face flushed abruptly, brows knitting together at a steep angle. "I'm not _lying_ , if that's what you think."  
"No, you're just _rubbing it in_ -"

"You're the one that brought it up!"

Like he hadn't had the book out waiting for Lance to show up. Like this entire time- maybe, maybe he could buy the earlier stuff was some kind of clueless, but this-

"It doesn't even matter. It doesn't have anything to do with you."

"You think I'm not fighter material?" _Because that's pretty quiznaking rich coming from a guy whose species hasn't even left the solar system._

"You aren't in the class, are you?"

The uncomfortably warm something that had been climbing Lance's throat dropped into a pit of ice somewhere near his stomach.

 _Is this just how it is?_ Is this just how he's going to spend the rest of his life- staring at someone's back? Dad, Allura- and now it's Keith. And he doesn't have any of the familial warm fuzzies this time telling him it's for the better.

"That can change."

* * *

"I think you're overreacting here."

"I'm not!" Lance declares, at a volume that startles a half-awake grad student in the next room, given the various thumping noises and expletives that follow.

"You're freaking out here."

"Great, paint me green and call me a klanmuirl."

Hunk glances up at him, briefly, and then looks back to his book. "Lance, you're making up words again. That's _definitely_ evidence you need to chill."

"This is serious, Hunk."

He turns a page, unimpressed. "Okay, so you got into a fight with a guy and now you want to get into a prestigious training program literally just to spite him."

"I didn't _fight_ him." If he did, he would've won, which would've made it feel better.

An ambivalent wave of one hand. "Okay, you had a yelling match and got kicked out of the library for a while. Just historically, making life decisions because of arguments is not the best idea."

Lance rolls over onto his side, directing a look that's probably more pout than glare at Hunk's back. "Are you gonna help me with this or not?"

"Obviously? I'm just saying, sleep on it before you go hassle administrations at eight thirty at night." He stifled a yawn, repurposing the raised hand to rub at his eyes. "And talking about studying, I've got three different tests tomorrow and one's in first period, so…"

They linger for a while in silence before someone knocks on the door.

It's the kind of knock that is not entirely sold on whether it actually wants to achieve its intended purpose.

Lance and Hunk exchange a look. They both know what this is probably about- though Lance doesn't entirely appreciate the thread of "I told you so" in Hunk's. He avoids it by rolling off the bed onto the floor and heading for the door himself.

Keith looks about as surprised to be confronted by Lance in his PJs as Lance does to find Keith awkwardly hovering outside of his room. In a moment where neither of them are entirely sold on what to say, Lance realizes that Keith's uniform is probably a size or so too big on him- the guy is a toothpick in khaki shorts.

"…What are you wearing?" Keith manages after a second.

It is, in fact, a glow-in-the-dark "alien" t-shirt and the comfiest thing Lance owns at present but he was more moping in the general direction of bed than actually going to bed, and he's more than aware this isn't his most flattering angle- hair down, he'd taken his contacts out, but he's entirely past worrying about someone taking issue with the flash of pink in his pupil, least of all Keith.

"It's like ten minutes to lights out. Why are you here?"

This seems to rekindle some of his sense of purpose, at least enough that he looks more like the Keith Lance is used to seeing, and less like a lost puppy. "We- I- …Look. I wanted to apologize, all right?"

Lance blinks.

Keith glances at his face and then finds something very interesting to his left to stare at.

Hunk, who was leaning over the back of his chair, falls over, and rapidly has to pretend he wasn't just eavesdropping.

The silence is very nearly hitting critical awkward thresholds, and the faint, discordant sounds of Hunk picking his chair back up and straightening the desk aren't cutting it. He has to say something. "Yeah, well-"

His eyes land on something. A dark shape, sticking out from Keith's hip, and with his mouth already going, before he can even think it through- "What's that?"

Brows furrow- for a moment, Lance worries he's struck a nerve. But then Keith traces his eyes to the shape. "Oh, it's- …just kind of something I've had for a while."

It looks like a hilt. "Garrison lets you keep a sword?"

"It's not a _sword_ , it's kind of…" He unlatches it from his belt, holds it forward, scabbard and all- the reason why is rapidly apparent because not one, but two different zip-ties are securing it in place.

It's mostly silvery metal, the pommel darker- a short crossguard, thickly wrapped from what he can see protruding beyond the hilt. There's a subtle iridescence to the metal- he's no expert, but the way it looks like it fits together…

A chill crawls up his spine.

"Where did you get this?"

Something in his tone must've come out sharper than he meant it to. Keith is directing him a confused look- behind him, he can feel Hunk staring.

The first warning for lights out chimes across the intercom, making both of them jump. In an instant, Lance remembers- Garrison. This is the Garrison. This is Earth.

"Right. Okay, uh, looks like you should go, sorry for yelling at you in a library and comparing you to my sister, great talk, see you tomorrow for that assignment okay goodnight," and the door is closed before Keith can get a word in edgewise.

He puts his back to the door, leaning against it for a moment before sliding down to sit on the tiles. After a moment, he can hear retreating footsteps.

Silence.

"You never said you had a sister."

"Hunk, don't start." He gets up and heads towards the bathroom- after all, they don't have much time before lights out and he has an evening skin-care routine to start that doesn't care about weird classmates and their weird knives.

He scrubs off the concealer, staring at his reflection a moment, the patches under his eyes glimmering dully.

He really doesn't want to think about what that means. It's probably nothing. He's probably wrong.

But he can't shake the feeling that thing wasn't made on Earth.

After a moment, he shakes his head.

Who is he kidding? It's a knife. This is _Earth_. Worst come to absolute worst it fell off a satellite, or ages ago somebody _else_ crashed here and didn't make it. Even pre-contact cultures are never untouched, even a planet like this that's relatively out in the middle of nowhere…

Hunk's right. He needs to go to bed.


	4. Chapter 4

Several people are standing. A few of them are hunched over their computers, still- most of them are looking up at the larger monitor.

Everything is normal. Within bounds. As predictable and neat as anything can be observing the moon of a planet at the edge of the solar system.

Nothing is wrong, except the fact that three people and their entire ship should be there. Or, in fact, anything, except a single bored hole to suggest anyone was there to drill an ice core in the first place.

"Think the kid could tell us about it?"

Iverson's good eye doesn't pull away from the monitor.

"I mean, the alien one."

"I know which kid you mean," he grinds out, with about as much patience as he can manage at that point. "What do you think he's going to tell us? There's an empty moon where two of our best men and a promising cadet used to be?"

The officer shrinks a bit at his tone- but holds strong. They're all stressed. It's hard to talk to anyone in this room without running into sharp edges of some kind. "He mentioned he was fleeing something, right? And we got an energy spike from 01 the same day they missed their first check-in."

"Or we can try not to make baseless guesses about something we clearly don't understand."

Another person speaks up, quietly. "So we're lying to the general public and pinning the blame on one of the victims." She doesn't pull her eyes away from her station.

"You do me a favor, you find Shirogane alive and get a better explanation for what happened, I'll personally apologize to him and everyone else. In the meantime I'd like to avoid a global panic."

The woman doesn't lift her head to meet his eyes, but her tone is distinctly drawn taut when she says "Yes, sir."

It's only years of muscle memory in military posture that keeps him from deflating. "Good. Now if you'll excuse me, I'd like someone to explain how a thirteen-year-old broke into my office this morning."

* * *

Working towards fighter class takes up a lot more time than he expected, which ultimately, works out very much in Lance's advantage.

Space travel is imperfect. Earth is doing its best, but they don't have… anything, really. It makes sense not everyone is going to make it out. And he knows already that he can't help with that from his current situation.

He hadn't known Shiro as much as he had Sam, but it was enough to know that he'd been an incredible guy. Charming, polite- and incredibly good at what he did. You didn't get where he was at 24 without something going for you.

And now they were gone. Just like that. And the worst part was afterwards; more or less the entire Garrison campus moving back to business.

He can't even begrudge them. He's doing the same himself.

Hunk disagrees, considering the number of times Lance talks him into sneaking out of the Garrison- but sometimes he just has to get away from it all, and the least he can do is spread the joy a little.

A few times, he seriously debates sneaking in to see Blue. He could probably just ask the Garrison, but another part of him resents that. She doesn't belong to them. Ultimately, it doesn't come to anything- he's occupied, and stays that way.

Keith disappears. The instructors call it a discipline issue. Rumors abound about a fight. A few of them insist he put someone in the hospital- stabbed them, even. A lot of it just sounds like gossip, and Lance isn't interested in poking around. Either way, it stands that his dorm room is empty within a day, and no one afterwards seems to have any idea where he went.

A week later, Lance makes fighter class. He gloats about it- but there's a bitter aftertaste to it.

He knows who that spot belonged to.

* * *

Simulator class proves to be simultaneously the greatest and worst thing that has happened to Lance since arriving on Earth. The first time everything lights up in a field of stars, it doesn't feel like a fake ship. It doesn't feel like a pretend assignment. He can't even listen to what he's supposed to be doing- Hunk, and the other student they're paired with, some fourteen-year-old whiz kid- because he's back out there.

It feels almost like home.

And then the ship crashes.

Well, no. That's avoiding the issue.

And then he crashes the ship.

Iverson makes it very, very clear after the fact whose fault that was.

Excuses clatter ineffectively around Lance's head for hours afterwards. The controls are wrong. He's out of practice. That's not how space works.

None of them actually make it out his mouth.

He resolves to try harder. Cautiously. Manages a few good exercises, and more bad ones. It's never completely easy, never completely like what he's used to- and he's not alone in the ship. He butts heads with Hunk, and the other one- Pidge, which he swears is some type of Earth bird. Who names their kid after a bird?

So-and-so Gunderson, apparently.

Outside of being fourteen, a few things stick out about Pidge. He's squirrely around the instructors sometimes- but that doesn't stop him from yelling at them from time to time. After a while, a particular subject emerges that seems to be the target of almost every one of Pidge's outbursts.

Kerberos.

The failed mission.

He still hadn't talked to Iverson about it. Hadn't been sure what to say. You don't lead a conversation about someone else's loss with 'jeez you humans sure are bad at space, am I right'.

(Especially considering his track record with the simulator)

But it feels like there's something to say. Earth is a galaxy over from what's considered civilized space- it's a fringe planet if there ever was one- but if one of the Lions is here, someone should've come by now. An Altean scout ship, or…

Lance puts down the book he'd been trying to read the entire time. "Hey Hunk, how do you feel about having a night on the town?"

"You mean sneaking out again? After we _just_ got chewed out by Commander Iverson? No, great, I love it, just two guys getting in trouble for like the eighth time this semester alone."

"Well, it won't be just us. It'll be-"

"Oh no,"

"Team building."

Hunk sighs, deeply, picking up his vest from where he left it. "Has it occurred to you we can bond doing other things? Things that won't get us in trouble?" He takes a moment longer to find his boots. "Like, I dunno, group study session."

Navigating the hallways at this point is easy enough, even taking a detour to try and get to Pidge's dorm. It's not even enough to keep Hunk from continuing to complain, though he keeps his voice down after the lights shut off.

"...start an agate collection. Get fast food sometime. Of course by 'get fast food' I mean let me make you something that isn't overcooked garbage but y'know-"

"Shh!" He hesitates at Hunk's brief, affronted look- _sorry buddy, it's for a cause_ \- and then pokes his head around the corner, just in time to catch a retreating flash of orange sneakers.

…Looked like Pidge had other plans for tonight. But now, so did Lance.

* * *

"You come up here to rock out?"

There's a moment where Pidge defies gravity by sheer force of surprise. He shuffles clumsily in place- feet together, hands in his lap, somehow trying not to look suspicious. "Oh. Lance. Hunk. No, uh, just looking at the stars."

An appraising eye sweeps over the miscellaneous scattered hardware. "Where did you get this stuff? It doesn't look like Garrison tech." Insofar as his knowledge of human anything goes.

"I built it."

"You built all of this?" There's a thread of awe in Hunk's tone- it's hard to say how much Pidge appreciates it, because he definitely doesn't appreciate the questing fingers heading for the keyboard.

"With this thing, I can scan all the way to the edge of the solar system."

He plays at considering it- as if he just picks the thought out of thin air: "That right? All the way to Kerberos?"

He watches Pidge fold away from the name.

"You go ballistic every time the instructors bring it up. What's your deal?"

Silence- except telling Hunk off for touching something again. Time passes. Too much. After a moment, Lance sits down, cross-legged. "Hey, we're not leaving anytime soon." Partially because he doesn't think he could tear Hunk away from that setup if he tried to- out of the corner of his eye Lance can see him inching towards the screen again.

" _Fine_." Pidge turns to face them both, an odd expression of gravity. "The world as you know it is… about to change. The Kerberos mission wasn't lost because of some malfunction or crew mistake."

Oh he's just decided he really doesn't like where this is going.

"…So I've been scanning the system, and picking up alien radio chatter."

" _What have you been hearing_?"

Both Hunk and Pidge are staring at him, but he doesn't really care. Suddenly, the peaceful blips on the two screens don't seem nearly so much of an idle curiosity. He makes a grab for the headphones.

Pidge finds his voice first. "Lance, what the hell?"

"Depending on who's talking, this entire planet could be in big trouble." The headphones are halfway to his ears when a much smaller hand catches his wrist.

Perplexed hazel eyes are studying him sharply. "What do _you_ know about this?"

He forces himself to breathe. Lowers the headphones. If Pidge is right, there's a whole solar system they could be in. There's no guarantee they're heading for Earth now. Yet.

"…How much trouble are we talking here?" Hunk ventures into the silence.

"I mean a fleet. Maybe not the entire thing. They might not even know I'm here. It's been over a year-" _Maybe it's not Zarkon. Maybe it's a friend. Maybe they're trying to hail._ "Pidge, I'm serious, what have they been saying?"

"...Well, I haven't been able to make heads or tails out of a lot of it, but, there's been one word that keeps repeating." Pidge rummages at their notes. "Voltron."

"…Quiznak."

" _What_?"

"It's like a swear word," Hunk clarifies; Lance tones him out, stumbling to his feet.

Pidge twists in place. "Where are you going?"

"Commander Iverson needs to know about this." He makes it about two steps to the stairs when the sirens go off- the campus is going into lockdown. _Or he already knows about it_.

He barely has time to process before Hunk is pointing out something.

Something coming down from the sky.

Pidge holds up binoculars for a moment. "…Lance, were you serious about a fleet?"

There's a dark speck in the center of the fire. He swipes the binoculars, not paying much attention as Pidge comes along for the ride.

"…That's too small to be a cruiser. Way too fast." He waits for them to pull up, slow down. It nosedives into the ground instead, impacts with a brilliant flash.

Pidge is already gathering his stuff as furiously as he can go. Lance doesn't wait, but runs for the door. "Hunk, c'mon!"

He doesn't know who's coming down but he has to meet them.

And oh god he wants to be wrong about who sent that ship.

* * *

He's not. By the time he's gotten there, the Garrison has beat him to it- there's a tent set up, surrounded by guards and people. But it's altogether too easy to see the faintly glowing pod already tied down for transport.

Pidge hesitates, watching him at an angle before broaching the subject. "Do you… recognize that?"

"Yeah. Bad news."

He slides down the slope easily- the guard standing closest to the entrance spots him, trains their rifle in his direction. "Stay where you are!"

He pushes something out through his teeth that's more irritated huff than meditation breath and _shifts_.

The guard flinches. A hasty conversation passes on radio- Lance could nearly pick it up, but he's distracted when a faint chorus of scraping noises signals that Pidge, then, after a moment, Hunk, have joined him. They stay behind him when he approaches the quarantine unit.

"Look, you-" even with face concealed, the guard is sizing him up, nervously. "Nobody's getting in here. Commander Iverson's orders. That means _you_ , too. You're not even supposed to be here."

With a distinct thread of palace hauteur, Lance squares his shoulders. "That's a Galra pod. The ship that launched it isn't going to be that far behind. So either _you_ can go tell Commander Iverson that, or you can get out of my way and let me do it. You know, like we _agreed_ I was _supposed to_ if something like this happened."

"And what about them?" They take a hand off the weapon to motion over his shoulder.

Hunk is looking distinctly uncomfortable- not the normal kind, the 'this is a bad idea but I'm going along with it because you're _you_ , Lance' but genuinely unnerved, and a pang of guilt hits Lance hard.

Pidge meets his eyes, brows knit together over them. Spindly hands are balled tightly into fists. It looks as if they're caught somewhere between 'please' and 'don't you dare'.

With a bravado that Lance doesn't remotely feel, he sweeps back around to face the instructor. "They're with me."

Faceplate notwithstanding, he can _feel_ the guard's incredulous look. He refuses to let his own waver, until the guard breaks away from him to talk on the radio. It's a very short conversation, something he's not sure if he finds heartening or dispiriting.

Either way, he doesn't get to hear the answer.

Because right then, something explodes.


End file.
